


Yet I Stay Here Just The Same

by NorthwesternInsanity



Category: Music RPF, Steely Dan (Band)
Genre: Dirty Work (Steely Dan Song), Disillusionment, Gen, Stagefright - Freeform, band conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 21:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthwesternInsanity/pseuds/NorthwesternInsanity
Summary: Backstage, David Palmer contemplates the meaning of his duty to The Dan, and the fool it has led him to become while holding his own in battle.





	Yet I Stay Here Just The Same

_"Having fun?"_

The voice floating the question around the doorway overtop footsteps sounded gentle enough -curious, and perhaps even pleasant standing by itself. 

However, David didn't need to connect the voice to a facial expression to extract and recognize the subtle sneer from it, nor did he need a visual to understand the owner's intentions as anything but gentle or pleasant.

Walter Becker appeared in the doorway of the room down the hall from the backstage dressing room, where David had hidden away earlier to pass time with friends in town, and had not bothered to emerge from. 

Save for a few songs he knew well enough, he hardly had a part of the live performances now, and often no need to attend soundcheck -assuming he was even wanted there. Per Gary Katz's orders, and not ones that only David had an unspoken objection to.

"Having _fun,_ Dave?" 

The sneer was less subtle on repeating the question, especially with the view David now had of one eyebrow raised further than the other to stand sharply above the rounded lenses that formed the only barrier between himself and the eyes staring him down as his interrogation began. It was further complimented by the upward curling of one corner of his mouth, and leaning on the doorframe casually -with a dominant lack of fear.

Save for Gary's order on his diminishing role in the performances, any word Walter and his partner in crime had to deal would undoubtedly be final, regardless of whether the other parties liked it or not. And David had long since settled with that. 

He'd also resigned to the fact that he was no master of the game or words his two leaders excelled with, nor was he ever meant to be.

However, having spent enough time with the undefeated champions, as well as enough observation and practice in conversation with the strange bunch he traveled between shows with, David had learned how to play it casually and not get killed. Ultimately, he'd be defeated for sure, but not badly enough to face instantaneous terrible trouble if he didn't push too far.

"I dunno," he responded, offering an innocent look and a shrug. "Depends on what your idea of 'fun' is."

Walter's smirk held, but his eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows crept into a downward slant with them.

"Oh, I _see_. Are you having _my_ definition of fun; seems like a rather subjective matter to judge by sight alone. I'll choose not to answer for you, and opt not to chase answers. Though, if you're indeed not having fun now, rest assured, I can make sure you'll have _plenty."_

David looked up expectantly, not backing down, but keeping his mouth shut and playing the defensive.

At the silence, but prolonged eye contact, Walter relaxed his sneer, changing back to the more subtle expression he'd entered with.

"Don't look so exuberant, now," he retorted to the silence -and David's lack of typical relaxed and friendly demeanor -before turning on his heel and stalking away.

David only winced once he was out of sight. Walter knew something he didn't, for him to walk off so quickly, rather than hanging around to play the game longer.

_Of course he does. He ALWAYS does._

The notion of what might be next was potentially more of a threat than the battle of words David had feared was coming -particularly when the sound of footsteps resumed in the hallway.

Or perhaps not. It all depended on how well he managed to hang through the game.

"I'm past caring whether or not you show up for soundcheck. But if you're planning to get hammered, save it for _after_ the show, or _keep your shit together."_

This time, it was a much lower, rigid voice that swooped around the corner, and one filled with shivering venom. Entering behind it, Donald Fagen took on a far different stance from Walter. He hung back in the doorway and stood hunched and folded in on himself, with his arms curled tight around his stomach.

Though his voice and features weren't as deceptively gentle as Walter's, David had long since found Donald to be far less scary. Especially in the event he was approaching him backstage before a show. 

Even while holding dominance over him, Donald looked guarded, nauseated, and far less confident even with the superior power he held, detracting from his intimidating presence.

David had long since figured out the implications of that stance in particular too. It wasn't cowardly as much as it was wise. Donald was smart enough to refrain from attacking who he sought help from -at least not until the favor was done, lest he then not receive it.

It was the only true power David found in his possession.

Afterward, his next interactions with Donald and Walter were the ones he had to fear the most. For now, he could buy himself time -to place a lock on the door and prolong the time before it would be broken down to leave him open to attack.

"Last time I checked, you said you were doing this one on your own aside from my set," he stated calmly.

"I said Gary _asked_ me to, and I said I'd _consider_ it," snapped Donald. "Same as any other night for the past five weeks'th. Don't be _foolish_ enough to assume you won't be needed if we have you here."

"Fair," David admitted aloud with defensive submission. Indeed, he _had_ created a couple of obscene displays and lackluster performances while intoxicated. Ultimately, while he realized it had been the fault of his poor choices and planning, he pondered that perhaps he wouldn't be so tempted to play hooky before the shows, or as vulnerable to his alcoholic demons getting the better of him if he had more distraction. Being on tour as a frontman who had become the notorious poseur in place of who should have taken the position and title from the start was a tedious outcome -and one that turned him into the fool.

But then who was _he_ to take on the champions' choice to have him sent home early from the lead job? Certainly, he couldn't question it anyway after the worst two episodes. Those were the only times Walter had faced him _without_ his pseudo-pleasant expression, and had unleashed his venom full-force. If David had any remaining doubts of him being the more frightening of the two, they ended there.

_"Fuckin' lightweight, Palmer. Perhaps you've gone deaf as well as lost your sense of balance, since you can't tell when you're too hammered to sing on key, or remember that one of us said, 'No. Hangups'."_

David questioned if his next words directed to Donald weren't fueled by the courage of a slight buzz that had yet to truly impair him, or that he'd lost his fear of some certain consequences -namely being sent home for good, sooner or later.

"Though it's funny how one might have thought from the last two sets that I in fact _wasn't."_

Leaving the shelter of the doorframe to walk into the room and stand before David, Donald unfurled his arms to lift them in a loose, disjointed motion that looked uncoordinated in any place other than above a keyboard, and held his hands out before him.

"Not buying it? Have a look at my hands then."

The eyes contacting David resembled the wicked stare-down of a vulture seeking prey, but when combined with the stance connected to them, became the look of the begrudging beggar. Terrified of the fee of judgement a full performance might cost, and seeking anyone without the same fear who might take on the job for him.

Donald's hands visibly trembled as he held them out in a reluctant show of vulnerability he tried to mask with his intimidating stare. Neither of which David needed to see to know. It showed from the moment he walked in the room, and in the harsh, clipped syllables to his tone, exacerbating his lisp.

"Unlike you with those'th useless maracas, I gotta be able to hit the keys'th worth a shit, y'know?"

Sometimes, David couldn't help but wonder what the immediate reaction would be if he refused then. What trouble would he bring on for them?

Surely, something he didn't want to think about if Walter acted before the performance. Donald would strategically hold off -though the initial trouble might be far worse for him than anything David himself would face. Maybe it would be worth it. Except that it wouldn't be. David didn't have a the cold, sharp edges to his weapons that his masters held, and knew he wouldn't dare. He hadn't on past contemplations, and spark of thought died just as soon as it glowed, leaving no flames burning in its wake.

Thus, he resigned to staying, just the same as every other night of the kind.

"You're on your own for 'Reelin' as usual. Just tell me before we go on what else you're doing and what I'm covering so there aren't delays."

He bit back his less patient thought on the times last minute changes had gone unannounced and he'd heard quite a bit about the fool he made himself look like, running to the front of the stage as though he were about to take the lead, and having to back off to stand at the side at the last moment. Instead, he silently came to another acceptance that he might experience it yet again if Donald managed to get a grasp on his courage once they were on.

For then, it was enough to keep the inevitable at bay. The tension hanging in the air receded instantly, and for the moment, the bayonets were turned away from David.

The dullness lifted from Donald's eyes, and the ashen, grey tinge to his face faded as the constriction on the oxygen supply to his wit loosened.

"By the way," he murmured, "watch how high you curl your lip up when you sing. You look alright until you open your mouth too far and show off the fangs'th you have. Then you're terrifying."

The game instantly resumed once he'd secured his victory for the night. As a silent victory call, he managed a smirk over the residual tension in his face -the smirk that would slowly build into a facade as the show neared, hiding the bundle of nerves beneath it.

Then he sauntered out before any rematch could be called.

Not that David would call one. Nor that it would be _his place_ to call one as a non-champion.

Instead, he let his expression of patient acceptance morph into a smirk of his own once he was alone again.

_'Fangs?' Alright, Don. Watch out so that your honking schnoz doesn't get obliterated by those floppy, barracuda lips when you open YOUR mouth to sing. See if you're aware of it curling up when you're focused on holding notes out. Oh, wait; it won't matter, because you'll be behind your keyboard and nobody beyond the front row is going to notice. And all the better for you. What WOULD you do if it wasn't for the keyboard standing between you and the eyes of the audience?_

Not that David would dare to speak the darker response swirling in his mind. It would not only invite a detrimental outcome for himself, but only gain him more dirty work for the night, as surely, the words would prove detrimental to Donald too -perhaps just as much as refusing to do the dirty work itself.

That's all it had become to David anyway. A bunch of dirty work that he did for the sole reason that someone else didn't want to do it -and he'd had the biggest clue of what it would be from his first sessions in the studio.

Sure, Donald wouldn't show his indignation of having his fear confronted and escalated in the event he did speak of it, but it would be there. The only visible sign up front would be increased tension in his shoulders as he hunched over the piano. The heightened awareness of his own fears of being there would only strengthen the embarrassment he denied on the outside, and speed the process of it fermenting deep within him into something bitter enough to knock David out when it did emerge -faster than whatever copious amount of drinking he could manage before a show.

Despite holding the truer response in his head and resigning to his added call for the night, David knew well enough it would eventually emerge anyway. It was all he could think of as he walked through the hallway, back to the stage to check in with Skunk, Denny, and Jim, and passing by Walter's knowing sneer in his direction from where he stood leaning against the wall with Donald, sharing remarks of some "poor fool" in the crew who could have just as well been him. To which he obediently ducked his head and hurried for the stage, indeed grateful for the entertainment of having _something_ of note to do -if being the very thing he'd come to loathe.

He didn't want to do that dirty work that the shining role of lead he'd been invited with had deteriorated to anymore. It had already deteriorated halfway by the start of the tour, when Gary had already made the push for the change of the guard on the lead role.

_If you knew you wanted to take it on, you should have been doing it yourself in the first place._

However, as the fool who saw terrible trouble coming, and saw plenty of ways to ensure his dismissal, he stayed just the same. He continued to play the game, to do the dirty work, and place the lock on the door holding out the demon of fear. 

He scorned his own judgements himself, accepting that they were the thoughts of a fool, and that it wasn't the place of a fool to judge the call to his duty when it was one he did not know.

_Maybe someday, I'll be wise enough to understand your fear._

If, he supposed, that Donald and Walter wouldn't be the very ones to teach it to him before he met his final defeat.


End file.
